


like needle and thread

by toewsyourheart



Series: untold stories of the er [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Feels, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Untold Stories of the ER, medical AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The motto in the ER is expect the unexpected...</p><p>Patrick didn't see any of this coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like needle and thread

Every day, Patrick goes into work expecting the unexpected; he’d be doing himself a great disservice otherwise, nursing in the emergency room. It’s a fucking madhouse on the worst days and still fairly chaotic on the best, a place of constant noise—incessant beeping and ringing and paging, shouting and gagging and crying—intermittent with crisis. 

Viewed categorically, the job could seem monotonous—chest pain, abdominal pain, vomiting, fever and chills. There are certainly common complaints that present early and often, sprinkled with strokes and STEMIs, broken bones and bullet wounds to keep things interesting. But behind every repetitious diagnosis and discharge is a patient: an individual, a family member—sometimes one, sometimes four-plus to deal with—and that’s where the real surprises come from. 

The ER is full of personalities: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the sick. While some patients keep Patrick smiling for minutes after leaving their rooms, others make him want to unplug their call lights and flip a chair on his way out. Each one is different, but when he’s on the clock, it’s his responsibility to let it all roll off and take care of them with a smile on his face. Patrick’s good at it too, always polite and unfazed under pressure. And not to brag, but he isn’t known as the ‘patient whisperer’ for nothing; his blue eyes can charm even the bitchiest, man or woman, or so he’s been told… 

At the end of the day though, it’s the ER, and shit happens. They can’t all be tamed. 

 

Patrick’s reminded of that anew on a relatively quiet Monday—the kind that has the entire staff on pins and needles, expecting the floodgates to open and the crazy to pour in. His patients are content, aside from Mrs. Fisher in two, who’s probably never been content a day in her life, if Patrick had to guess.

He’s just left from delivering her a fourth blanket to prop her precious feet on because the angle wasn’t quite right, when Chaunette hurries up to him, exasperated as hell. 

“Pat, this man in eight—Watts?—will _not_ go back to his room,” she says, “Could you please come try with him?” 

“Sure thing,” Patrick agrees easily, accepting of his role as first line of defense around here when he’s not too busy. People handle their own business way more often than not, but before they call security to calm an exceptionally difficult patient, they get Patrick, barring something totally out of hand from the jump. 

Usually he negotiates a deal, if it’s one of his close buddies; he’ll agree to help if they’ll agree to, oh say, start his lines for an afternoon, draw his blood cultures for a day, or buy him an ice cream at lunch. But Chaunette’s the newest RN on staff, and problem patients, especially the frequent flyers, have a keen eye for it and love to take advantage. Patrick’s heard horror stories about this guy too, so he’s happy to assist for free. 

When he rounds the corner to scope the situation, Mr. Watts is in the hallway, one hand fisted at his back to hold his gown closed. His face is splotchy, and he’s weirdly sweaty. He also stands at about six-foot-two, two-thirty, Patrick estimates, so he’s glad Chaunette sought him out. 

“How much longer ‘til I see somebody?” he barks impatiently, turning on Patrick when he notices his approach. Patrick doesn’t know shit about Mr. Watts’ case, clueless as to what the complaint is or what tests have been run, so he’s got no news to report; his only concern is getting the guy back in his room, so Patrick puts on an understanding smile and prepares to wing it. 

“I know you’re tired of waiting, Mr. Watts. I’m so sorry. We’re all doing the best we can here,” Patrick offers calmly. “Let’s get you back in bed so you can relax.”

“ _Relax_?! How am I—? I want the damn doctor!” he demands, creeping forward in socked feet. Patrick can smell alcohol on him, which is a little surprising for Monday at six o’clock, but it answers some questions about why he’s here and agitated as fuck all the same. 

Patrick raises his hands in placation, but holds his ground; he’s in control here, not Mr. Watts. “Sir, the doctor can’t see you in the hallway, okay? That’s why you have a room and a bed.” 

“Oh, you think you’re smart, don’t you?” he sneers, pointing a finger in Patrick’s face that he artfully dodges. “You all just stick us in these rooms and forget we’re here!” 

“I can assure you that’s not what we do, Mr. Watts,” Patrick says. “C’mon, come with me, and I’ll go right and get the doctor after we get you in bed.” 

It’s a white lie, but it works. Mr. Watts narrows his eyes suspiciously, but seems to deflate a little, and Patrick takes the opportunity to get close enough to place a gentle hand to the small of his back to guide him toward his room. 

What a mistake. 

The instant Patrick makes contact, he barely has time to register Mr. Watts’ words— “Don’t fucking touch me!”—and see the flash of his arm as he whirls around, before it’s too late. One second, Patrick was sure he had the situation under control, and the next, he’s recoiling from a hard crack of knuckles to the mouth by a guy almost twice his size. 

“Shit!” he startles, hand covering the injury on instinct and coming away red, blood dripping between his fingers and onto the tile. “Sir, what the—Jesus Christ, man!” 

Patrick’s in utter disbelief; he’s been around the block, and has never even come close to being assaulted by a fucking patient. His face is red hot, his jaw throbbing and pulse racing. It’s all he can do not to retaliate, gritting his teeth and spinning on his heels to leave Mr. Watts standing where he is. 

Through a mouth of blood, he garbles at the next person he sees, “Page security to the north hallway. Now.” 

“What happened?” Dayna gasps, frantically bypassing the phone and hitting the panic button on the wall. The high-pitched beeping rings in Patrick’s ears, and he only just notices that there are spots in his vision. “Did he hit you?” 

“What’s it—Yeah, he fucking hit me!” Patrick answers, absolutely livid. He can’t see his own face, but from the literal trail of blood behind him and the burning in his upper lip, he assumes it can’t look good. 

He’s swarmed by nurses as he approaches the desk—the single pro to being an injured nurse in a hospital—and looks over his shoulder just in time to see them restraining Mr. Watts, the insane son of a bitch. 

“Fuck!” Patrick curses angrily, wincing when opening his mouth too far turns out to be painful and achy. He quickly attempts to assess his damage, wiggling some teeth to find them thankfully secure, and is pretty decided it’s mostly cosmetic; but still, these are situations he’s been trained to avoid, and here he’s gotten himself punched in the face, in front of everyone! It’s the goddamn principle of the thing! 

“Kaner, what the shit?” Steeger shrieks, handing him some gauze. “Is your face broken?” 

“Shut up, dude, no,” Patrick mumbles, jerking it from him and turning into direct eye contact with Dr. Toews—Jonathan, for him—as he emerges from the break room with his backpack on, clearly headed out the door. 

He stops dead in his tracks, and Patrick’s stomach swoops. 

It’s new. They’re new. 

It happened so naturally, Patrick almost missed it, but it’s there, and it’s as real as his accelerated heart rate. The sight of him, as it always does, gives Patrick that fluttery feeling in his chest that settles into contentment, and the anger drains right out of him despite the pain. Patrick can’t even manage to feel embarrassed about bleeding all over himself in front of him, watching Jonathan’s face transition from fear, to concern, to upset in a matter of seconds.

“What the hell?” Jonathan shouts, eyes searching for an answer from someone, but before he can get it, he’s motioning for action. “Get him in six, now.” 

“Jon, I don’t think—” Patrick begins in protest, even though he can tell from Jonathan’s set face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, that he’s resolved; Patrick’s seen it many times in the few months they’ve spent together: when he insists, he insists. “I really think I’m fine.” 

“Patrick, I’ll be in there in a minute,” is all Jonathan says in response, but it comes out with an edge of shakiness that gets his attention. Nothing ever rattles him, but if this is doing it, then Patrick’s going.   

“Get him checked in,” he hears Steeger from behind, and Patrick knows he’s in for a long night. 

 

It’s all different on this side of things, Patrick is quick to learn, having never been seen in his own ER before. 

He’s tended to countless patients in this particular examination room, but the feel of it is strange now. Patrick’s not in control like this, laid out on the stretcher instead of standing beside it, and it’s uncomfortable; even the monitor beeping next to him sounds off, more nerve-racking than it normally would be. 

Patrick adjusts his bed to sitting, because it’s not actually rocket science, and switches out the gauze on his face for a cloth. He didn’t realize he was such a fucking bleeder before today, but the thing is covered. He’s contemplating what to do with it when the door flings open, and he startles, dropping the gauze to the ground; he’s expecting Jonathan, but instead— 

“Oh perfect, Peeks. Just throw it down,” Steeger ribs him, filing into the room with Dayna, Elina, and a girl from admissions he doesn’t recognize. 

“Shoulda thrown it _at_ you,” Patrick replies, and Steeger chuckles to himself, then makes a notable effort to keep a straight face, so it’s clear total bullshit is coming. 

“Assaulting a healthcare professional is a serious offense, sir. I could sue,” he says, ironically enough, and bends to pick up the bloody gauze with a glove and trash it. 

“You think this is funny, man?” Patrick huffs out a breath, half amused and half annoyed. “ _I_ could sue!” 

“You could, dude,” Steeger agrees. “Shit is fucked, like your lip.” 

“Oh, leave him alone, Kris,” Dayna scolds, and Patrick maturely sticks out his tongue at him. 

The admissions girl uses his brief moment of gloating as an opportunity to slide in with her spiel, and Patrick decides being on this end of all the questions is definitively worse than being punched in the face; at least the latter was over quickly. 

“What’s your address?...Are you married or single?...Who’s your emergency contact?” 

It just goes on and on. 

“Who’s your PCP?...What insurance do you use?...What’s your religious affiliation?” 

“Wait,” Patrick stops her, affronted. “We ask people that? Fucking invasive.” 

“I just shoved a tube in someone’s penis, Patrick,” Dayna says flatly, clicking away on the computer, undoubtedly charting on him. “ _That’s_ invasive. Stop giving her a hard time.” 

Patrick makes a face at Dayna—it was way better when she was getting after Steeger—and mumbles his answer to admissions. “Catholic, but I don’t how that’s releva—” 

The door opens again, interrupting him, and it’s Jonathan this time. In the short, thick silence that follows, Patrick just stares at him and Jonathan looks back, while everyone else glances nervously between them. Their thing isn’t public knowledge at this point, but with all the time they spend together around the hospital, it’s not exactly a secret either; Patrick thinks it’ll be even less so after this ordeal. 

“Everybody out,” Jonathan announces, solidifying that thought into a guarantee. Nobody utters a word, except for Steeger of course, because he struggles with shutting up. 

“Hope I get this five-star treatment if I ever get suckered, Dr. T,” he says, throwing Patrick a wink on his way out, and Jonathan scoffs. 

“Let’s hope for your sake I’m not here then.” 

“Ouch,” Steeger winces dramatically, closing the door on his ridiculousness; and just like that, they’re officially alone. Patrick can speak freely now. 

“I thought we said no special treatment?” he reminds him, smiling softly with the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. Jonathan’s mouth quirks up just slightly in return, and he walks over to Patrick’s bedside, grabbing a pair of gloves on his way.

“You said that,” Jonathan corrects, “not me.” 

He methodically pulls on his gloves, chewing on his bottom lip in that concentrated way he does, and stretches his fingers so they fit snug at the tips. He never takes his eyes off Patrick as he steps in close, the room around them charged with a tension much different from before. Then he reaches out, making it clear he’s about to touch Patrick’s mouth. 

Patrick nods, removes the cloth, and lets him. 

With a finger curled under Patrick’s chin, Jonathan gently tilts his face to the light; he grazes his thumb delicately along Patrick’s lower lip as he checks him over, using his other hand to manipulate the upper, where all the damage seems to be. Patrick can feel it’s swelling, and the split burns when Jonathan tugs on it. 

Patrick flinches, and Jonathan stops but keeps hold of his chin. 

“Patrick,” he breathes out. “Tell me what happened.”

“The dude in eight—I don’t know, Jon. He was pissed. I was getting him back to his room and he fucking snapped. I thought I had it handled, but…” Patrick shrugs, feeling oddly ashamed for some reason. 

“This was not your fault,” Jonathan says seriously, dropping his hand from Patrick’s face and nudging his thigh over so he can prop on the edge of the stretcher. “He wasn’t even your patient, was he?” 

Patrick shakes his head, and as if on cue, Chaunette peeks in the door. Jonathan doesn’t move. 

“Oh!” she starts, “Dr. Toews, I’ll come back later. I just wanted to—I’m so sorry this happened, Patrick. I should’ve just gotten security. I—”

“Why exactly wasn’t he in holding already?” Jonathan questions, and Chaunette gapes at him; Patrick remembers being scared shitless of the doctors when he first started too, so he throws her a bone. 

“It’s really okay, Chau. Definitely better me than you. He was just on detox, Dr. Toews,” Patrick adds. “Not a psych evaluation.” 

“No? Erratic, disruptive behavior, with a history of substance abuse and violent mood swings,” Jonathan lists off, reminding Patrick that he still knows nothing about Mr. Watts. “Not an eval?” 

Okay. Maybe it was an eval. 

“H-Holding was full when he came in,” Chaunette finally stutters. “But I should’ve moved him once a room opened, it was my mistake.” 

“Probably,” Jonathan replies, and Patrick feels so bad for her, he pinches Jonathan’s hip where she can’t see. 

“C’mon, Jon. Easy,” he whispers, and Jonathan takes a deep, collecting breath, fingers flexing hard against the mattress; his tone is lighter when he speaks again. 

“It’s good you weren’t hurt, Chaunette,” he says calmly, apologetic without giving her an actual apology. “Now, I need orders for a CT, and the LAC cart, please.” 

“Absolutely, Dr. Toews. Be right back,” she nods, and Patrick thanks her as she goes, just catching Jonathan’s eye roll as he turns to face him again. 

“You weren’t very nice,” Patrick accuses, breath hitching when Jonathan removes his gloves and reaches toward his face again, tentatively brushing his knuckles across Patrick’s cheekbone on the way up to his sweaty forehead. 

“You got punched,” he provides in explanation, pushing back an errant curl as he runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair. It’s the most intimate contact they’ve shared, and Patrick can hardly breathe. He’s so fucking thankful he isn’t hooked up to the monitor because he swears his heart rate’s in overdrive; nobody needs that audible embarrassment here.

“Seriously, I really have to go to CT?” Patrick asks, and Jonathan smiles. 

“X-RAY, too.”   

“Oh, you’re the worst,” he groans, breaking them out of their quiet moment. Patrick idly adjusts the cloth on his mouth to find the bleeding has mostly stopped, but he’s sure it still looks fucking gnarly. Just perfect. “ _Both_? That’s overkill.” 

“I think I’ll decide what’s overkill and what’s not, thank you very much,” Jonathan replies, resting a steady hand on Patrick’s knee. “Put that back on your mouth.” 

“Aren’t you actually supposed to be going home right now?” Patrick tries, voice coming out a whine as he repositions the cloth on Dr. Bossy’s orders. 

Jonathan’s fingers give a small squeeze, so Patrick places his free hand close enough to touch them, trailing along his index and thumb. 

He smiles even wider. “Not anymore.”

 

When Chaunette comes back with the laceration cart and confirmation that orders have been put in for an X-RAY and head CT, Jonathan all but steamrolls over her in his haste to get Patrick down the hall and around the corner.

“Never seen an MD escort a patient to X-RAY before,” Patrick remarks, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone who might be staring as they pass the north desk. Some asshole—he’s come to assume Steeger, always—starts a half-hearted slow clap that dies quickly, thank god, and Patrick can only guess at the level of gossip that starts up in its wake.  

“Neither have they, apparently,” Jonathan says, glancing down at Patrick with a smirk, and he doesn’t know why, but something in Jonathan’s casual expression leads him to push.

“Why are you though?” he asks curiously. “You didn’t have to, and now everybody—well, you saw.” 

“I don’t give a shit about that, Patrick,” Jonathan deflects, then mumbles, so quietly as they step into the X-RAY lab: “You know why.” 

The faint blush that creeps to his cheeks says everything his vague reply didn’t, and Patrick’s answering smile is involuntarily and stupidly fond. In a way, it’s freeing to be next to him knowing he doesn’t care who sees or what they might think about it. Jonathan’s got his back. 

Patrick decides that’s a feeling worth getting punched in the face for. 

 

The results, as he suspected they would be, are negative—no visible fractures, no displacement, no nothing.

Never one to pass up the chance, Patrick throws out a teasing “told you so,” bumping shoulders with Jonathan as they take a closer look. “Please don’t make me do a CT, too.” 

Jonathan stares at the X-RAY for a beat longer, as if he’s willing anything he might’ve missed to show itself, and then looks at Patrick with a renewed intensity that means another mini-examination is coming; Jonathan signs up for Patrick’s rooms every time they’re on shift together—that’s how their whole thing started in the first place—so he’s very familiar with the attentive, persistent focus with which Jonathan gathers information for diagnoses. It’s a lot having it trained on him.

“Did you lose consciousness at any point?” he asks. “No dizziness, no previous concussions, nothing?” 

“Nope,” Patrick says, unwisely attempting to pop the ‘p’ before he remembers his lip is gashed. Jonathan furrows his brow in consideration, and Patrick thinks he’s won, but of course it’s not that easy. 

“Open wide and close for me,” he instructs. Patrick complies. “Now grit your teeth.” Patrick bares down hard. “Anything feel loose or broken?” 

“No,” Patrick says honestly; it’s achy as hell and his upper lip stings, but he knows the difference between soreness and the acuity of a fracture. “My teeth and maxilla were the first things I checked.” 

“Any prior facial or dental surgeries that could’ve been compromised?” Jonny continues. His concern is evident, so Patrick does his best to be patient and thorough. 

“Ditched my wisdom teeth when I was sixteen, that’s it.” 

Jonathan ‘hmmms’ to himself, chewing on his lower lip. “You’re telling me the truth? Not just trying to get out of it?” 

“I’ll always tell you the truth, Jon,” he says, and Jonathan sighs; Patrick doesn’t miss the relief in it. 

“Okay, no CT,” he concedes, and Patrick backflips internally—CTs take for-fucking-ever. “Let’s call up to plastics and get you stitched.”

 

Jonathan’s words don’t fully register until they’re back in his room. 

“Hang on?” Patrick blinks at him, puzzled. “Call plastics? Why?” 

“To close that lip, obviously,” Jonathan replies, pulling his phone from his pocket, rambling absently as he looks for a number. “Watts was wearing a ring—which would’ve been taken already if he’d been in holding, mind you. That’s probably why the cut’s so deep without much damage otherwi—” 

“Wait,” Patrick stops him with a hand circling his wrist. “But I thought you were doing it?”

“It’s your face, Patrick,” he says simply, and Patrick shrugs. 

“So?” 

“Sooo,” Jonathan drawls, “I don’t want it to scar.” He thumbs the opposite corner of Patrick’s mouth, watching closely as his lips part. “This’s too pretty for those.” 

“My mouth?” Patrick asks, stepping into him; he bats his eyelashes a little, fully aware it’d probably be more alluring without the fat, bloody lip and flushed red cheeks, but alas, it seems to be working anyway. 

“Your mouth,” he repeats, eyes moving up to meet Patrick’s own, and back down. 

“Sooo,” Patrick starts, mimicking Jonathan’s casual tone from before. “What you’re saying is, you think you can’t do a good job?” 

It’s a challenge, and the way Jonathan visibly refocuses, his competitive edge taking over, he knows it too. 

“Hmm, I guess we’ll see, eh?” he says, determined now. “On the bed, Patrick.”   

Patrick feels a shiver creep through him, easily imagining that coming from Jonathan’s mouth in a different, clothes-free scenario. He turns and walks to the stretcher before he does something mildly humiliating, like jump him, and adjusts it to a greater angle so he can lie back further.

Jonathan’s checking out the LAC cart when Patrick turns around and settles in, supplies already laid out for him by one of the nurses. He picks up the suture kit and makes a face. 

“These are shit. I’m calling Sharp to tube down better ones, and you can’t stop me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Patrick grins, and Jonathan shakes his head in amusement, taking out his phone again and stepping into the hall with a promise to be right back. 

 

Patrick barely has time to miss him before he returns, the acceptable sutures in hand.

“You’ve got no idea what I had to do to get these,” he huffs in exasperation, placing the set on the tray and grabbing his gloves. 

“Sharp give you a hard time?” Patrick asks, even though he knows the answer. Dr. Sharp stirs up all manner of shit in the ER when he comes down for consults, most of the ruckus directly related to riling up Jonathan. 

“When does he fucking not?” Jonathan replies, rolling his eyes, but it’s all fond; Patrick sees right through him. “You ready?”

“Are you?” Patrick counters, watching him so carefully, just as he does when they work together. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Jonathan nods, pulling his gloves on snug again. His precise, methodical way of doing things is beautiful to witness; aside from his obvious hotness factor and magnificent ass in scrubs, that’s what attracted Patrick to him in the first place. That, and the overwhelming kindness he shows his patients, assuaging their worries and setting them at ease, just as he’s doing with Patrick now. 

“I know,” Patrick murmurs, taking a deep breath as Jonathan starts to draw up the local anesthetic. He suddenly feels a spark of nerves, eyeballing that 16-gauge needle, even though he recognizes the one actually going into his face will be much smaller. The apprehension most likely stems from observing doctors jam and dig with them in all manner of places for procedures like this on the regular. Once it’s numbed a little, it’s a free for all, and the thought of it being _his_ face, is unsettling. The emergency room isn’t exactly known for the aesthetic value of suture work either; it’s usually temporary, until plastics can get to it, but Patrick trusts him. 

He says so aloud, both to solidify it to himself and to remind Jonathan. 

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, corner of his mouth lifting into a warm, nearly bashful smile that’s gradually becoming Patrick’s favorite. 

Jonathan’s in the zone otherwise, switching out needles to the 30’ and wasting the excess. He steps in close, hip bumping the stretcher, and Patrick reaches down to fist his hand in Jonathan’s scrub top. 

“’Kay, s’not gonna feel too good,” Jonathan warns, slowly coming at him with the needle. The first injection fucking sucks, and Patrick hisses, thankful for the draw sheet and Jonathan’s shirt to grip tightly. 

“I know, Pat,” he says, a little pained himself, it seems, as he carefully moves the needle to a different site. “I’m sorry.” 

After that, the numbness sets in and it’s a piece of cake. Patrick only feels pressure, no stinging, but Jonathan keeps working with such care and tenderness, like Patrick’s some delicate thing he’s handling. 

“Not g’na break,” he mumbles as best he can while keeping still. Jonathan blows out a breath, making eyes at him as he cleans out the cut with proviodine and flushes with saline. 

“Shhhh, I’m concentrating,” he whispers, and Patrick rolls his eyes, unclenching his hand from Jonathan’s shirt to tuck his fingers beneath the elastic of his bottoms to hang on there; the warmth is nice, and if Patrick wiggles his fingers, he can just feel a patch of skin. Jonathan pauses, millimeters from Patrick’s lip with the initial suture, and Patrick doesn’t think he imagines the way Jonathan’s hips roll forward, ever so slightly, seeking more. “What’d I say?” 

“Oh, this bothering you?” Patrick teases, deliberately tickling his fingertips back and forth. 

Jonathan draws back his hands and leans in close, and Patrick welcomes him, even if he’s not sure what’s coming. His heart is beating wildly, Jonathan’s breath on his face as he bends to drag his lips across Patrick’s temple, then to his ear to whisper, “Patrick, I’m about to stitch your lip. You can stick your hand in my pants later, okay?” 

Patrick’s never been more turned on by a reprimand in his life. 

“Promise?” he asks, blushing when Jonathan’s lips press to the apple of his cheek, then down to his dimple in gentle kisses. Patrick lets his hand migrate up Jonathan’s chest and around to cradle the back of his head, cursing every god known to man that his mouth is fucked up and rendered unkissable. He imagined Jonathan touching him this way for the first time going down much differently, but it’s still amazing, and he’ll fucking take it.

“Oh, it’s a guarantee,” Jonathan mumbles against his skin, making a noise of pure contentment when Patrick scratches through the hair at his nape. “Since you’ll probably need overnight observation for this.” 

It’s undoubtedly the first time that prospect has ever sounded appealing to anyone, ever.

“You know, I think you’re right,” Patrick agrees, full to bursting with where things are headed and how absolutely perfect it feels. “Probably at your place.” 

“Wherever you want,” Jonathan says, then straightens to look at him. “Now, can I do this so we can go?”

“I’m all yours,” Patrick answers happily, and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on real life events @ my work. thanks to heartstrings for being my ride or die on this and everything else. 
> 
> come find me @[toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com).


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